Die Twice

by Simon Kernick

  Which is just the sort of uplifting advice you need on a Wednesday afternoon.

  * * *

  Wednesday was Berrin’s first day back at work after his impromptu bout of summer flu, which was the reason I hadn’t allowed him to come on the lunch with Malik, but had instead got him reviewing witness statements. He wasn’t going to get a decent meal on the Met when he’d spent the last three days lolling about at home. The bastard looked quite brown, too, which made me suspicious. When I got back to the station that afternoon he was doing an interview with a man who’d been arrested for possession of eight hundred quid’s worth of counterfeit currency. Apparently there’d been no other CID available, and such was the quality of the fakes it was thought appropriate that there was plainclothes representation when they were talking to him.

  While I waited for him to come out of his interview, I wrote down what I’d picked up in the meeting with Malik. I also checked my emails but he’d yet to send through the information he’d promised me, which wasn’t a huge surprise. He was a busy guy and it could wait, particularly since it didn’t sound like there was going to be anything earth-shattering contained in it. The Shaun Matthews incident room was eerily quiet again that afternoon, with me the solitary person in it. For some reason, it made me feel sorry for Matthews in a way I doubted he’d ever deserved, but there was something vaguely undignified about the way his death was steadily being forgotten by those charged with finding his killer. As if he simply wasn’t important enough.

  I picked up the phone and dialled the elusive DI Burley, expecting to get his voicemail as I had on the last two occasions I’d called. He hadn’t returned either of those calls. This time, however, I was in luck.

  ‘Burley,’ he grunted. Even his telephone manner was obnoxious.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ I said, trying hard to sound as polite as possible. ‘It’s DS Gallan here.’

  ‘You again. What the fuck are you hassling me for now?’

  ‘I wondered if there was any sign of Jean Tanner yet.’

  ‘Listen, I told you the other day, and I’ve told your DCI since then, that when she turns up we’ll let you know.’

  ‘Is there any actual effort being made to find her?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you want me to do, run adverts on the front page of The Times? Do a door-to-door poster campaign? We’re looking all right, but we haven’t got unlimited money and manpower, so it’s going to take some time.’

  ‘And what sort of progress are you making?’

  ‘A lot more if I didn’t keep getting my voicemail clogged up by the likes of you.’

  ‘If you’d let us fucking help in the first place—’

  ‘Don’t ever swear at me, Gallan,’ he growled, but by this time I was past caring.

  ‘Is someone paying you to drag your feet on this? Is that why you’re taking so fucking long about it?’

  ‘You piece of shit. You’ll be hearing from me about what you just said.’

  I think we both hung up on each other at pretty much the same time, and I was left staring at the phone, wondering what motivated some people to join the police force. In Burley’s case, it was probably a desire to mess up people’s lives. I hoped he didn’t make a formal complaint to Knox, who had no idea I was hassling Burley.

  Next, I tried Roy Fowler’s numbers, more out of habit than anything else. I knew he wouldn’t answer, and he didn’t. I then phoned the Arcadia and asked the man who picked up whether they’d heard from him, but they hadn’t. It also turned out that Elaine Toms had left, which was vaguely interesting. No-one had a forwarding number for her, and there wasn’t one on the murder log, so I was reduced to scanning the phone book until I found it. She wasn’t home; a man I assumed was her boyfriend or flatmate answered. I introduced myself and asked if she could call me back. The man on the other end politely asked what it was about and I gave him the usual spiel that it was simply a routine police inquiry. In truth, I wanted to find out why she’d left the club and whether or not there was anything she might want to add to her existing statements. A bit of a straw-clutching exercise, perhaps, but if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

  When Berrin came back from his interview, we discussed any new developments on the case, but there was nothing of note to report. At about five o’clock, Elaine Toms phoned back. She seemed in better spirits and was certainly a lot politer than the last time we’d talked, but that didn’t alter the fact that she had nothing further to add to her statement.

  Fifteen minutes later I decided to call it a day, and on the way out I bumped into WDC Boyd in the corridor. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days as she’d been transferred to the assault case on the thirteen-year-old girl and was in charge of liaising with the victim. It was a role I reckoned her well suited to. She had the right combination of sensitive and strong.

  We both stopped and made small talk for a minute or two. I asked her how she was getting on with the new case and she told me that, like all sexual assaults, it was a difficult one, but particularly so when the victim was so young. ‘She’s bearing up well, considering,’ she told me, ‘but it breaks your heart, John.’ There was a genuine pain in her eyes as she spoke, and all I could do was tell her that hopefully the girl was young enough to shrug off the trauma of what had happened. I wasn’t sure I believed it, though.

  ‘Have you managed to get anywhere further with the poisons lead?’ she asked me.

  ‘No, I’m still not sure where else I can go with it.’ I’d taken Boyd’s notes on what she’d uncovered regarding the venom that had killed Shaun Matthews after she’d left the murder squad. They were very thorough but didn’t contain any hidden gems of information. ‘You seem to have covered every angle,’ I told her.

  ‘I’ve covered the obvious ones, but I’m sure there’s something I’ve missed and we’re missing.’

  ‘Did you ever search for any matches on the Internet?’

  ‘I had a couple of dabbles but as soon as you put in key words, you get hundreds of pieces of information that are totally irrelevant. Sometimes I think the net’s overrated as a means of finding out about stuff. And you know what it’s like round here. If you start surfing, people think you’re just messing about and not working. They’re still Luddites in CID.’

  ‘I think I might have a go at home,’ I said. ‘I bought this PC a while back and I never seem to get the time to use it.’

  ‘Story of our lives,’ she said.

  I wanted to ask her what she was up to now and whether she had time for a quick drink, and I was just about to open my mouth when Knox appeared round the corner, looking troubled.

  ‘Hello Tina, John.’ He stopped and took hold of my arm. ‘You’ll have to excuse us, Tina, but we’ve had some movement on the Matthews case. John, I need to speak to you in the incident room. Urgently.’

  I said a brief goodbye to Boyd then walked back towards the incident room with Knox. ‘What’s happened, sir?’

  ‘That stain in the car we stopped the other day. The one you phoned in about.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘It was blood. And guess who the blood belonged to?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, sir.’

  ‘None other than Mr Arcadia himself, Roy Fowler. It matched the sample we took from him when he was nicked for driving under the influence.’

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  He turned and fixed me with a self-important stare. ‘I think I know what’s happened,’ he said.

  * * *

  Capper, Hunsdon and Berrin joined us in Knox’s office in the incident room. Capper asked me how it had gone with Malik that afternoon. ‘Has he heard anything from Dennis Milne lately?’ he asked with a snide smile as he grabbed a chair and sat down.

  ‘Yeah, he got a postcard from him the other day,’ I said, smiling back. ‘Apparently he’s opened a guesthouse in Bournemouth. Says he’ll do discounts for CID and pensioners.’

  Capper didn’t look too amused, knowing that his attempt to score a poin
t, however pathetic, had backfired, but he didn’t say anything. Hunsdon yawned.

  ‘All right, gents,’ said Knox, bringing the meeting to order. ‘Important news.’ He then explained what had happened for the benefit of Capper, Berrin and Hunsdon, before sitting back, bolt upright, in his chair. There was a moment’s silence while the news sank in.

  ‘That puts the cat among the pigeons,’ said Capper, exhaling dramatically.

  ‘My theory’s this,’ said Knox, looking at us each in turn for maximum effect as he spoke. ‘Fowler had Matthews killed. He used poison to make it look like an accident but obviously wasn’t aware how easy it was for us to find out about it. That’s why I don’t think it was the work of organized criminals. They would have just shot him. Fowler’s motive was drugs. We know that dealing went on at the Arcadia in fairly sizeable quantities, we know that Matthews ran it, and we’re almost certain that Fowler organized it. I reckon Matthews was ripping Fowler off, Fowler found out about it, and took revenge.

  ‘But I think Matthews had a business partner. Someone involved with the drugs with him, and that person was Max Iversson. He and Matthews were both ex-soldiers, same regiment in fact, and I think we’ll find that the two of them knew each other. Iversson found out about what Fowler had done and decided to take revenge. He may have simply assaulted Fowler, but more likely he’s killed him, and is consequently lying low.’

  ‘It certainly sounds plausible,’ said Capper, nodding.

  I wasn’t sure. Given that there was no evidence whatsoever to suggest that Iversson and Matthews knew each other, Knox’s theory relied one hell of a lot on suppositions.

  ‘What about McBride?’ I asked. ‘Where does he fit into it? And what about the Holtzes?’

  ‘I don’t know is the short answer,’ he said, which at least was honest. ‘McBride may well be something completely different. And, as for the Holtzes, I just can’t believe that they’d use an obviously traceable and extremely rare poison to get rid of a business rival.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, because he had a point. I still didn’t go with it particularly, but it was hard to argue with the logic. A poisoning did seem a very odd way for a gangster to operate.

  ‘Anyway, the most important thing is we find Max Iversson and see what he’s got to say for himself. His details are going to have to be distributed to other forces, along with that photo of him we’ve got.’ He looked at Hunsdon. ‘Paul, you get that sorted out, OK?’ Hunsdon nodded. ‘Crimewatch is going out next Wednesday and I want a photo of Iversson on it for the rogues gallery. That ought to get some response. Plus, I’m organizing a search warrant for Fowler’s place.’ He looked at Capper. ‘Phil, you and Paul turn it over and see what you can find. At the same time, start really digging up on Fowler’s background, generate some clues. I know he’s the key to it.’

  Next, Knox turned to Berrin and me. ‘John, something’s going on down at this Tiger Solutions company, or whatever they’re called. It may be coincidence but that missing person, Eric Horne, worked for them and he still hasn’t turned up, has he?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, sir, no. I spoke to his ex-missus briefly yesterday and he hadn’t then. She seems pretty worried.’

  ‘I don’t know how we missed the fact that he and Iversson worked for the same outfit. Anyway, you and Dave go back, grill the people there, particularly Iversson’s partner, and get some answers. Something very dodgy’s been going on, and I want to find out what it is.’

  Which were my sentiments exactly. I hoped Knox’s theory was right, because if it wasn’t we were left with dozens of pieces to a jigsaw that seemed to be getting more complicated with each passing day.

  Introducing Krys Holtz

  Krys Holtz was a man who knew that a show of weakness, any show of weakness, inevitably destroyed a man’s authority. You had to be strong. You had to break the bastard in front of you and shut out every last fucking scream for mercy he made, however loud it was. After all, if a bloke didn’t do Krys any wrong, then the bloke had nothing to fear. It was only cunts who took major fucking liberties who found themselves paying the price, and the price was always justified. They could yell and squeal and beg as much as they fucking wanted. They could piss their pants, even shit in them (and some of the bastards did, too), but it was never going to make a blind bit of fucking difference, because if he let the geezer go, gave him a pat on the head and told him not to be naughty again, then they’d be lining up to put one over on him, and that was never going to happen. No fucking way.

  ‘First things first. Admit to me you took that fucking money. Because I know you fucking did so there ain’t no fucking point in pretending that you didn’t. Is there?’

  The ‘you’ in this instance was Mr Warren Case, proprietor of Elite A Security and supplier of door staff to the Arcadia nightclub, who was, at that moment in time, tied to a filthy old bed in Krys’s cavernous workshop. He was naked and spread-eagled, his hands and feet tightly bound, and very very frightened, which was hardly surprising given the fact that he’d been part of the Holtz organization for getting close to ten years and therefore knew exactly what Krys was like.

  ‘Please, Krys,’ he whimpered, ‘I didn’t do nothing, honest.’

  Krys laughed. So did the three other men gathered round the bed: Big Mick, Fitz and Slim Robbie. ‘I tell you, boys,’ said Krys, shaking his head, ‘this cunt’s taking me for a fucking fool. Have I got “gullible cunt” written on my fucking forehead or something?’

  ‘No, boss,’ said Fitz somewhat unnecessarily.

  ‘Oh God, God … Please, please…’ Case might have been a big man with a reputation to match but his words were spewing out so fast that no-one could really understand what he was saying. Not that anyone was listening. It had gone way too far for that.

  ‘Why don’t you torture him, Krys?’ suggested Slim Robbie helpfully, looking down at Case’s sweating, panic-stricken features.

  ‘Good idea, Rob, I think I might just do that. It’ll save us all a lot of time and will, in this case, be particularly fucking enjoyable.’

  Case tried to struggle with his bonds but he was too well secured for anything more than the smallest of movements. ‘Krys, please, I swear I didn’t fucking do anything. Honest. On my kids’ lives…’

  Krys looked mildly put out by this. ‘On your kids’ lives? That’s a mean fucking thing to say, Warren, especially as I know you’re as guilty as sin. I can’t understand why you don’t just come fucking clean and admit it. I mean, we’re going to get it out of you sooner or later. Why don’t you save us all the trouble?’

  But Case continued to protest his innocence in forced, desperate tones, which really peeved Krys. It reminded him of that time with Jon Kalinski. Right up until the bitter end, that bastard had sworn he’d never nicked a penny off Krys, when in reality he’d had him over for close to two hundred grand in cash and diamonds. And for a long time Krys had believed him, too – the smooth-talking cunt – but in the end he’d had the last laugh, making him watch while he’d gone to work on his girlfriend, telling him to be patient, because it would be his turn next. Come to think of it, Kalinski had shat himself as well. Terrible smell it had been. Runny, too. Some people have got no self-respect.

  It was time, Krys decided, to drop the Mr Nice Guy act with Case and take more radical measures. He picked up a dirty apron from the chair beside him and made a great show of putting it on, ignoring Case’s whines. When that was done, he walked up to his tool rack where a vast array of implements covered almost the entire length of one dank, grimy wall. He stopped, inspected what was on offer for a few moments, then selected his Bosch 3960K battery-operated drill, a fine piece of German workmanship if ever there was one, and vastly superior to the equivalent Black & Decker. It had been a birthday present from his dear old mum and was something he only liked to use on special occasions. Removing it from its handy carry-case, he spent some time selecting a suitable drill bit, opting eventually for a nice thin three mill. After all
, he didn’t want any accidental fatalities. Not before he’d found out what he wanted to know. After that, he’d have to see.

  He fitted the bit and turned the drill on, enjoying the revved-up shriek it made as it shifted between the two gears. He turned it on and off several times in rapid succession, and once again the naked prisoner struggled on the bed, tears of frustration and bowel-churning fear streaming down his face.

  ‘It ain’t looking good, is it, Warren? This is Teutonic tool-making at its finest. Vorsprung durch technik, and all that. This cunt goes through concrete like it ain’t even there, and with hardly an ounce of pressure. Not like its cheaper, more substandard rivals. So, think how easily it’ll go through human flesh. Your flesh.’ As he spoke, he approached the bed until he was standing right above it, looking down at Case’s fear-engraved face.

  ‘Please, Krys, I swear. I have never, never, never fucked you over. I’ve never skimmed you, I’ve never taken nothing that wasn’t my due. Honest. Please, for my kids’ sakes. Don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Admit you did it, Warren. That’s all you’ve got to do. Just fucking admit to me that you took my fucking money, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you go.’ He switched the drill on again.

  ‘But Krys, I didn’t, I didn’t. I promise—’

  Krys shoved the drill into his face, ripping a vicious hole right through the cheek. Blood splattered angrily across his features and the dirt-encrusted mattress, and flecks of it splashed onto Krys’s apron. He held the drill in there for a few moments while it made a nice mess, careful not to push too hard and damage the tongue, then pulled it out, taking a lump of meat with it. He switched it off, removed the lump, and chucked it back at Case. ‘That’s yours,’ he said evenly.

  Case coughed and choked as his mouth filled with blood. He managed to turn his head and spit most of it onto the pillow. Then he sicked up some pinkish fluid.